


winter mourning

by rev_eeriee



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Dangan Ronpa 3: The End of 希望ヶ峰学園 | The End of Kibougamine Gakuen | End of Hope's Peak High School, Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Afterlife, Character Study, Despair, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Hell?, Introspective Natsumi, Loss of loved ones, Regrets, Time Loop, so many regrets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-10-04 21:53:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20478050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rev_eeriee/pseuds/rev_eeriee
Summary: Natsumi stared at Mahiru for a long, long time.'You will fall too,' she thought. The reminder sent a stab of dread in her chest. They walked past her, through her, and then she was face to face with her killer, Sato, the bitch, looking incredibly smug. Insanity crept at the corner of her green eyes, dark like poison, dark like sin.The ghost raised a finger at the murderess and smirked.'You will die too,' she thought.Natsumi was prideful even in death.She refused to admit that she didn’t want her killer dead.--AKA. A Kuzuryu Natsumi Character Study.





	winter mourning

**Author's Note:**

> This is my entry to the DULLSTART zine. It's a zine featuring characters connected to the Twilight Syndrome Murder Case. I should have posted this a long time ago but never got around to doing it. I actually liked Natsumi a lot, so here. Take it. TAKE IT AO3-

**** It started again. Over and over. Like a broken record. Like an old weathered film, recounting all her faults, her sins, her shortcomings. Stained with the red post-apocalyptic sky… smeared with pink blood and ever pinker guilt, she endured. 

Kuzuryuu Natsumi’s hell always started like this. 

The sound of banging resounding in her skull, the sickening  _ bang-bang-bang _ , cracking pebbles and cracking skin—Natsumi covered her ears. The movement was erratic, but she could almost imagine it as buttons pushed in a game controller: up, down, up, down, left, right, down—one day her death would be a game, a game to taunt her brother with, a game to send him into despair— 

Natsumi knew this. She knew a lot of things. Such was the perk of being  _ dead _ . But it wasn’t like it mattered. She could not help her brother while she’s dead. She could not stay by his side while she’s dead. She could not save him from despair while she’s dead. 

Natsumi wished she wasn’t the corpse lying limply in the corner of the music room, but there was no point in deluding herself with childish fantasies. This was where her story ended. Or where her story  _ should’ve _ ended. 

Because her story hasn’t ended yet. The end was still far away, way out of her reach, leaving her no choice but to go through the motions in a cycle, over and over. If hell existed, it existed  _ now _ . 

This must be her retribution, her punishment. For starting this song of tragedy, for being the first domino to fall—fall fall  _ fall _ into the chaos and the depravity that swallowed the world, and swallowed her beloved brother along with it. 

It all started with smug, egotistical Natsumi. Too proud to accept her place. Too proud to admit her normalcy. 

_ You deserved it _ , a part of her whispered, as she stared at her own cold corpse. She swallowed hard, steeled her nerves, and with a huff directed at no one, turned around and walked out of the music room. Just in time for four main class students to walk through the door, gasp in horror, and panic at the sight of her lifeless body. Her brother’s classmates, right in front of her, sane and good and normal and— 

Natsumi stared at Mahiru for a long, long time. 

_ You will fall too _ , she thought. The reminder sent a stab of dread in her chest. They walked past her, through her, and then she was face to face with her killer, Sato, the  _ bitch _ , looking incredibly smug. Insanity crept at the corner of her green eyes, dark like poison, dark like sin. 

The ghost raised a finger at the murderess and smirked. 

_ You will die too, _ she thought. 

Natsumi was prideful even in death. 

She refused to admit that she didn’t want her killer dead. 

* * *

Fuyuhiko found out soon enough. It didn’t take him long. 

Perhaps it was terrible of her to feel so pleased, to feel so  _ happy  _ to find out that her beloved older brother mourned her death so intensely. That despite all the petty arguments and childish bickering, he loved her regardless. She’s his Ultimate Little Sister. It was something even death couldn’t take away from her—the strength of their bond. But even this small bit of light couldn’t survive in the darkness of her swirling thoughts. 

_ He would have been better off if he didn’t care.  _ She knew this one for a fact. It was the truth, nothing but the cold, hard truth. And as her eyes passed over the grainy image of her tear-filled funeral, as she watched her brother’s aide—Peko Pekoyama—clench her fists in the inability to protect one of her masters—she figured that she would have been better off if she didn’t care, too. 

Because Natsumi was nothing but a catalyst. A catalyst for all the bad things that was about to happen. Twilight Syndrome was fitting, she supposed, as her death was the beginning of everything, the twilight before the darkness of the night.

The next bit was always the worst part. Her thoughts continued to swirl. 

Swirling, swirling into a downward spiral as he watched those gentle eyes burn with the slow flame of vengeance and fury. Swirling, swirling into a filthy drain as he held onto the unpleasant parts of their heritage, their yakuza blood. 

An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth. A life for a life. 

All it took was one swing of the bat. 

_ Crack!  _

Natsumi winced. There was a thud as Sato collapsed to the floor.

Heavy breathing. Hands shaking. A lifeless girl against the wall of the hallway, bleeding from the blow to her skull. It was quick and efficient, almost unfairly so, whenever she was reminded of how much her death  _ hurt.  _

(Absentmindedly, she wondered where Sato could possibly be right now. Her soul, she supposed. If Natsumi was suffering this hell, was she suffering somewhere too?)

_ Serves her right, _ Natsumi thought with a scoff, as she watched the pool of blood build on the floor. But she was glad that was all it took. She was  _ so glad  _ that it was all it took. Not for Sato’s sake, no, but for Fuyuhiko’s.

Her brother probably wouldn’t be able to stomach making any more blows. 

He had always been the gentler one. For all the things their parents said about her being worthier of being the Yakuza heiress because of her more violent demeanor, Natsumi actually thought Fuyuhiko’s sweeter side was one of his best traits, one of the reasons why she looked up to him. 

She couldn’t see a single glimpse of that sweet side now. 

His eyes were burning with rage and  _ grief _ and resentment. Natsumi bit her lip and covered her eyes. 

_ All my fault all my fault all my fault _

It was all her fault for not knowing her place! All her fault for not admitting to her normalcy. Hajime was right, she should have stopped being such a goddamn  _ asshole.  _ She should have just resigned herself to the fact that her brother would always be leagues in front of her, leagues  _ better  _ than her—someone with an actual talent. If she did… if she did, then—

_ I wouldn’t have to see you look so sad,  _ she thought, dread rising up her stomach as she watched him shudder and  _ sob  _ over the corpse of the girl he just killed, sob over the fact that even if he took away her life, it won’t bring his sister’s back.  _ I wouldn’t have to see you look so devastated.  _

Fuyuhiko continued to cry in pain and anguish. Every roar was tearing at Natsumi’s heart. 

She didn’t let out a few tears of her own, no she didn’t. 

_ That’s stupid.  _

* * *

The cycle will end soon, she knew, as she watched the times go by. Wandering in her bizarre life after death was her pastime, watching the things that unfolded way after she died, things that she liked to think wouldn’t have come to pass if she was there to stop it. Or maybe that was still her ego talking. Her arrogance and pride were the most fatal of her flaws, the gravest of her sins. 

Maybe that was all that made Kuzuryuu Natsumi. Maybe if she didn’t have that, there would be nothing left. 

(Or maybe she’s right. Maybe if she hadn’t died, her brother wouldn’t have fallen to despair. Maybe if she hadn’t died, Peko wouldn’t have fallen with him. Maybe if she hadn’t died, the members of their clan wouldn’t have been slaughtered so mercilessly by their very heir. But that’s too painful a thought. Natsumi couldn’t bear it.)

She opened her eyes on a familiar tropical island. She knew that it was all a lie, even when her brother didn’t. But it was Mahiru’s time to die. 

Another swing of the bat. It was Peko, this time. 

Natsumi didn’t look. 

Natsumi didn’t look for a very long time. 

And then there was panic, and then there was the game—the clamoring of everyone in the trial always unsettled her. Her brother wanted Peko to live  _ so badly.  _ Her sweet, wonderful brother was back. The person she admired more than anyone else in the world. 

_ And yet. _

And yet. 

More tears. More sobbing. More begging. 

“No! Peko! Don’t leave me! I need you!”

Natsumi watched as a familiar execution ended in blood. 

She never really knew what happened after. The images never showed it. She wouldn’t be surprised if that strawberry-blonde haired woman—Enoshima Junko, was it?—was the very devil herself. This hell was incredibly sadistic. But maybe, just maybe—it was nothing that Natsumi didn’t deserve. 

The cycle started again. The grainy film reset to play a familiar reel. 

The sound of banging resounding in her skull, the sickening  _ bang-bang-bang _ , cracking pebbles and cracking skin—Natsumi covered her ears.

_ Endless.  _

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos! Comment! Eh... do whatever you want.


End file.
